


He Looked Very Happy

by londie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Fluff, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-07 04:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11051235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londie/pseuds/londie
Summary: Sherlock's happy for one day a year. For the rest of the time, John falls apart with him.





	1. He Looked Very Happy

**Christmas Eve, 2010**

The pulsing centre of London is completely draped in colour. Shimmering lights adorn conifer trees, parents push prams covered in fairy lights, rosy cheeks beam and flush on every face. I’m sitting on a bench. Waiting for the signal.

Sherlock should be here any moment now. He told me that the toy-store would be the checkpoint. There’s more than one of those around here, but he didn’t bother to clarify before he shot me a single, radiant smile and dashed off. The cheerful climate of Christmas must be rubbing off on him. 

“John!” 

A distant shout. 

Immediately, my nerves are on edge. The Christmas Eve crowds are a thick throng, and I swivel around, back and forth. Where the hell is he coming from?

_“John!”_

Closer now. Maybe he’s seen me. Maybe I just have to wait.

I strain to look through the crowd, for any kind of faster movement. A man running, two men, hopefully. I stand, bracing myself. 

“CATCH HIM, JOHN!” 

A man bursts free from the mass. He’s barrelling straight towards me. Not Sherlock. Too short, business suit, tears running down his face. 

He doesn’t know who I am. He just tries to run past, as if I’m an oblivious, frozen shopper. So I grab his arm, twist it behind him and force him to the ground in one swift movement. The air goes out of him as he hits the pavement. I crouch and keep my weight on him. 

“Lovely!” 

Sherlock’s shoes are suddenly right next to me. The sound of his gloved hands clapping gleefully seemed more appropriate on a child in the toy-store nearby. 

Keeping the man down, I look up at him. Each of his hurried breaths turn into evening mist. His face is flushed pink as a rose, and smiling as brightly as if Christmas had come early.

Handcuffs, a call to Lestrade, sneaking off and two buses later, and Sherlock is taking me to his favourite beach spot. In the middle of winter, at midnight. A few minutes from Christmas Day. 

The water's incredibly icy. I almost scream. Sherlock laughs at that. A lot. I’ve rarely seen him so happy. 

“John, why are you still in your pants? It makes no sense. No one can see you.” 

“Why are you naked?” I shout back. I can barely see him in the dark. 

“Water makes them wet.” 

For some reason, his playfulness starts to feel way too infectious. Perhaps it's the numbness of cold reaching my brain. I cup my hands around my mouth and adopt the voice of an award host.

“And here we have the famous consulting detective Mr Sherlock Holmes, accepting his award for Most Logical Man, for his discovery that water indeed makes things wet—”

Sherlock starts splashing water in my face; spluttering, I can't finish. But he's laughing. He's actually, openly, laughing for me; with me. I begin giggling uncontrollably as well. We sound like we're hiccuping: all the trembling interrupting our laughter. 

Suddenly, the water starts to shimmer with little fractured lights. The moon had emerged from behind the clouds. I can see Sherlock better in the moonlight, bobbing a little as he treads water. He's smiling with radiance, still chortling a little. He looks very happy. So do I. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! and thanks sm for any comments, it really helps me :)


	2. He Doesn't Look Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not Christmas anymore.

**March, 2011**

The house is large. It’s spacious. And empty. 

I knew that from the outside, with its picket fence and scrubbed path and the ‘For Sale’ sign stabbed into the garden. Sherlock wouldn’t come with me. I know exactly where he is, however. 

I’m itching to get inside. There are so many other people here. Maybe twenty. They can’t see inside before I do. That’s critical. 

When the salesman arrives, I let out a huge breath. I’ve been letting it out of my lungs little by little, in harsh and short breaths, unable to inhale much, afraid to exhale. My stomach is still way too tight as I push past eager buyers and stride straight up to him. He’s wrapped in a dark blue coat that’s strangling him as he tries to haul some folders from his car backseat. By the time he straightens and turns, I’m there.

“Sir, I’m sorry, can I get in first?” I ask. 

“No special treatment,” he replies, his voice as stiff as if he had snapped at me. 

“I’m not interested in buying the place.”

“Goodbye, then.”

Why is the wind so cold? Why isn’t my jacket thick enough? Why do these things seem more important to me than this man’s bullheadedness?

As if in a dream, I just turn around and stride up the garden path. How many eyes do I feel on me? Do I care? All the way up to the burgundy door. Hideous colour against the mustard walls. I plant one foot against the door, draw my knee back, and kick it like a horse. 

Only the second, deafening thud, and the wind-chime tinkle of wood chips plummeting to earth, is enough to bring the keys to my hand. I plug them into the keyhole, twist, and fall halfway through the door. Then I turn and slam it on the peering, unwanted eyes, the audible calls to police. Lock it. Swear a bit. Turn and look around.

There he is, curled up like a child. Curls matted in a halo about his head. Fingers clenched around the lapels of the coat he wears. He isn’t smiling. He’s sweating. 

He’s the only shape in the whole house. It is completely bare, bar him. Silent. Cold. He’s trembling a little. The uncarpeted floor mustn’t be doing him much good.

One trembling man in the middle of a large, empty room, in a huge, empty house. 

His whimpers echo all the way towards me. There are the deepest, darkest shadows beneath his closed eyes. I can’t feel much. My hand is clenching. 

 

I carried him, bridal-style, back to a cab. The police were called off, as usual - Lestrade’s in. But now I lie him down on the couch. Walk to the curtains and draw them closed. Let the dust settle before I go back. Sit in my armchair and wait. 

He doesn’t look happy. He looks ill. Pale and matted and sweaty. Not wet like in the ocean, when his matted hair and drops on his skin made him look alive. He looks half-gone. 

Oh, if only it could be Christmas Eve. If only it could be Christmas. The lights would go up all over the city, and the nights would buzz with anticipation, and the thieves would abound, and Sherlock would be happy. He would be so happy.

His face would shine and he would smile for me. He would let himself go and sing a little and kiss Mrs Hudson’s cheek tenfold. 221B shines with his fairy lights and his laughter. 

Maybe at Christmas he is happy. And maybe for the rest of the year, he is not. He is not happy. He doesn’t look happy. Nor do I. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! and thanks sm if you comment, it helps me a lot <3


	3. He's Rarely Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January is after Christmas.

**January, 2011**

In my chronicling of our adventures over the past couple of years, I hardly expected the flood of emails inboxed by my readers. It’s what they say, so it wouldn’t be egotistical to say here. Among their messages form a common theme: that my blog has an atmosphere that almost hugs them… lets them feel better about the world, I suppose. It’s some sort of homeostasis, one of adventure and domesticity, that keeps my work alive. The medical side to me likes that quite a lot. Well, perhaps that is egotistical. 

But it’s easy to write about adventure in domesticity. Sherlock is an adventurous man. I’m reminded of that each day as I put on tea in the morning, and watch him slink into the kitchen. Sometimes he wears a dressing gown - one of them; sometimes a suit (working through the night); sometimes even a disguise (the same, or for the hell of it). 

Sherlock doesn’t go straight to the fridge, as one would expect from a flatmate. He just stands near the doorway and looks at me for a moment, then swings around again and walks to the window. The curtain is pushed aside to give way to his penetrating gaze. A graduate chemist, a detective, a curious hobbyist, all rolled in one lanky figure. I pour tea. 

 

My emails are still open.

“How was Christmas last year?” writes one considerate reader. 

But the set of black type against white isn’t the starkest thing I see. In my mind’s eye, Sherlock wears a party hat. It’s blue, and he’s babbling over hot chocolate about how much he admires the colour. 

“Science and medical,” he says sagely. “That’s us.”

“You’re talking about Star Trek?” I ask, finally cottoning on. 

Our drinks are forgotten between us. We had abandoned them simultaneously: we can’t stop smiling long enough to drink them.

“Yes! Star Trek! Keep up!” 

In his sudden passion for the subject, Sherlock almost spits across the table. I try to quench my giggles as he fishes for his own manners. But his haughty dignity’s mussed by his hair, which is in the same condition. 

“You remind me of Spock,” I say. 

“I hope not. I’m not one to be so hopelessly in love.”

Even as he says it, his smile widens even further. He’s so radiant. The lamplight behind him almost seems to dim as he beams at me. 

Sherlock’s cup is cold, but I reach and hold it to my lips anyway. I just want to be cheeky, but it doesn’t work. He laughs, a lot, when I can’t force myself to stop smiling long enough to get even a drop. He laughs so much that he has to put his hands over his mouth, quenching it into giggles. I can’t stop giggling either. We try to be as quiet, as private, as we can. The effort of it builds a pressure, a fullness, filling my chest. Sherlock’s eyes shine as he uncovers his reddened mouth, as if he feels it too. 

 

I stop pouring tea.

There’s only one cup at this table. It’s not hot chocolate.  

I close my emails. Then the computer. Then my eyes. 

I don’t know where Sherlock is. 

We were alone, that Christmas night. There was only us there. Not a forced party. No family we cared to visit. Just us. Him, me, and it was lovely. So lovely. 

Just us in an otherwise empty flat, and that was enough to make it full. 

He’s not here now, though. He’s rarely around. 

I drink my tea. I’m not smiling, so it’s easy.


	4. He Wanted to be Found

**March, 2011**

It’s not drugs. That’s the first thing he tells me, upon waking up. He grabs the lapels of my coat, his eyes too wide, his face too white, as if he’d had the fright of his life. 

“I was conscious of entering the house,” he says placidly, an hour later, over tea. I had bundled him in a patchwork blanket that Mrs Hudson had thrown over a settee. He’s still trembling, so I hunt for another. 

“I still need you to pee in a cup,” I call to him. I’m fairly sure my voice is muffled - I’m leaning over the couch in such a way that my legs are lifting off the floor and my face is hidden - but from his annoyed huff, he got the gist. 

There’s no blanket behind the couch. I stand upright again and recommend a hot bath instead.

“Pee first,” I add.

“You’re vulgar.”

 

Through the bathroom door, he told me what he believed happened.

He’d wandered through the streets of London, the roads and cobblestones and chilled air, alone. He had gathered his coat about him, turned up his collar against the wind, and looked around at the people around him. So hurried. So boring. So empty of anything. 

It wasn’t Christmastime. There was no fever in the air. No festivity. 

To Sherlock’s overwrought senses, it was too much. Having nothing there was too much. That’s how sensitive he felt.

So, he caught a bus and walked some more and caught a train and walked. Followed the paths etched upside his own skull - he knew every road in London. Approached a crony, learned about the house in return for cash. Then he continued on: they were his usual methods.

He found the house. Lifted himself through the open back window. Then he curled up in the middle of the entrance floor. 

Sherlock wanted to be found. He wanted the flashing lights at the window, where he could better pretend that Christmas lights shone outside. He wanted the gasps and murmurs, as if people were receiving or discussing gifts. He wanted that elation in his brain and stomach and chest, just a little bit longer. Longer than a single day. 

 

“He’s been like since he was a boy,” says Mrs Hudson. 

I thank her for the fairy lights and leave her to her dishwashing. 

Within each stair lies a creak. They’re teased out by my feet, but I have to use them to get up the stairs. 

It’s a doomed task, therefore, to sneak the lights past a detective.

“No need, John,” comes his soft call, before I’m even visible to him. “I don’t need cheering up by some faux display.”

I sigh. He must be out of the bath already.

Too late.

“It wouldn’t be faux,” I call back. “It’s more… lightening the atmosphere. We know it wouldn’t really be Christmas.”

He’s silent. But I don’t move. This isn’t a victory. 

The image of draping 221B in fairy lights and tinsel sours in my mind. It seemed like the ticket to his smile, but I’m too stupid to predict him at all. 

 

As Sherlock taps his spoon against the side of his teacup, his urine container trembles nearby on the table. He lends it a disgusted narrowing of his bloodshot eyes. 

“It’s putting me off my appetite.”

“Do you need an appetite for tea?”

His eyes flick to mine. His eyelashes are lowered over them, a haughty curtain, but they’re still incisive. 

“You’ve changed.”

“ _I’ve_ changed?” I splutter. The next moment, tea is all over the tablecloth. 

Sherlock just looks at it. He doesn’t need to say anything.

“What about _you_?” I demand. _You’re being harsh. Tone it down. He’s suffering. Tone it_ down. 

But he’s silent. The lamp behind him is switched off, and it still looks brighter than he does. He drinks a little of the tea. The flat is so dark without the fairy lights. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! and thanks sm for any comments <3


	5. He Wants to Talk

**May, 2011**

Sherlock is an adventurous man. Being near him is akin to the eye of a hurricane: you are cushioned in calm, while around you, the world rearranges itself to suit him. 

“Too poetic,” said Sherlock. His lips are right next to my shoulder; his hand on the back of my chair. 

Then, he stands and goes to the mantelpiece. His teacup is there, right next to Billy. 

When he turns, he is in his dressing gown. The burgundy one; it mustn’t be that special of a night, if he’s wearing his seventh-best. He’s holding a cigarette, not his cup. Outside is sunset. 

“Sherlock, don't.” I’m firm on that. "Cold turkey."

He flicks the unlit cigarette into the flickering fireplace. 

 

Satisfied, turn back to my computer and find several paragraphs that don’t look half-bad. That’s what I mean by him almost being a hurricane. One moment I seem to be typing away at midday, and then the whole day seems to fly by in a manner I barely remember. 

“Post it,” Sherlock urged. “Then we can talk.”

“I’ll post it tomorrow,” I said, watching my mouse automatically reach the ‘save as draft’ button. A few more clicks and my blog closes. 

“Let’s talk,” he says, taking my arm. His fingertips are cold, even through my sleeve. The fireplace flickers, the chair is warm, and his eyes are on me the entire time we whisper. It just seems too private to chance including a neighbour. His eyes have flecks of different colours in them. I copy them in sprinkling more colourful topics into the discussion. After a few hours, he changes into his deep blue dressing gown, so I know he thinks this conversation is special. That this night is special. 

 

I blink, and three paragraphs have disappeared from my blog post. I'm in my chair, the laptop is there, the clock strikes noon and the fire's out. 

“Still too poetic,” comes Sherlock’s voice from the kitchen.

“You haven’t even read it!” 

“Don’t need to. Your pauses are far too long. You’re actually thinking. Balance of probability: trying to make it sound far too poetic.”

This is what I mean about the hurricane thing. I feel so calm, so ordered, around him. But the world around me acts madly: I seem to have spiralled back to several hours ago. 

“I want to talk to you tonight,” he adds in a thoughtful tone, still muffled from the kitchen. The tap of a teaspoon punctuates his thought. “The balance of your left forefinger against the keyboard indicates a greater presence of mind than usual. So you would be a more interesting conversationalist than you ordinarily are.” 

I roll my eyes at my screen. 

“That’s uncalled for.”

He still can’t see me. Apparently. But it _was_ uncalled for. He was just being him. Truthful and kind in his own way. I’m the rude one.

“Sorry,” I say. 

Silence. Just the tap of a teaspoon against a teacup. 

 

A moment later, I open my eyes. The room is dark. The rest of the flat was dark when we left it, saying goodnight - he was wiping his eyes - but this is different. Even darker. There's no flickering fire. There's no gentle face aglow with tears. I'm in my room. 

I close my eyes again and groan. I like to think about the past day before I officially sleep. A small side-effect of living with such an adventurous man. And sometimes, I like to manipulate it a little. In my mind, I skip it back and forth in time. 

Noon and dusk were the most exciting times of the day today; of course I tried to meld them. I must have got a bit too caught up in it, is all. 

Slowly, I wrap myself better in my blankets. It's not really a wonder why I became so invested. The time jumps give Sherlock the impression that he can arrange anything and everything to his liking; even time itself. At least, everything around the calm epicentre that I hope is me. And if he can do that, he could surely order his own mind in a way that suits him. 

As it stands, he started crying during our long conversation. About how it was only Christmas one day a year. How he only felt good one day a year, and how that wasn’t enough. And how, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t manipulate himself to feel the same way at any other point. 

I had peered into his eyes, looking for colours, distracted by tears. And once the conversation turned to fairy lights and snow, they ran down his cheeks by the dozens.

I rolled over and went to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! comments are rlly, rlly appreciated <3


	6. He Wants Fairy Lights and Extra Marshmallows

**March, 2011**

It seems that all my purpose here is to exist. While I wait around for that to expire, I take care of Sherlock. 

Although, I don’t know whether it’s the doctor or the soldier that compels me. Do I look at him like a patient, or like a comrade? Or do I look at him like an ex-army, non-practising doctor - in other words, no profession attached? Is it simply being a friend when I put a cloth to his sweat-soaked forehead? Or a doctor as I take his temperature? Or a soldier as I wait up all hours of the night for him? 

Something about spending a night on the cold floor of an empty house took its toll. He’s sweating, feverish, and asks me to string up lights all around his room.

At least Mrs Hudson’s box of fairy lights get some use after all. Especially as they still lay beside the front door. Neither of us had possessed the heart to return them so soon. 

I have my back to the lights, It’s within Sherlock’s glazed and twitching eyes that I see their bright colours reflected. I mop his face a little more and sit back in my chair. It’s drawn up very close to his bed; I tried to give him space, but it seems to have inched forward of its own accord.

He’s mumbling. I lean forward, my stomach tightening.

“More… lights…”

He licks his chapped lips slowly. 

“And a… tree.”

 

“I like the opera,” he announces, two months later. “It’s fine.”

We push out the theatre doors into the brisk evening air. Light rain buffets my face. I fumble with my umbrella.

“No need,” says Sherlock, sharply. He pats my shoulder once, brisk and unemotional, with a gloved hand. Then he points across the wet street towards a café that I assume he wishes us to visit. 

We do, and purchase hot chocolates. He asks for extra marshmallows, and it’s so characteristic of him, I pat his shoulder once in return for earlier. He tries to smile at me. It’s lopsided with effort. 

We look out through the rain-streaked window into the street. Although, I only do for a moment. Then I turn my eyes to Sherlock’s, and watch them dart and twitch between each detail of the pedestrians’ appearance. So rapid and methodical. I could watch them forever, and barely glimpse what connections lay behind their movement. 

“You know,” says Sherlock suddenly, shifting on his stool to face me (I hastily jerk from my reverie), “I really did convince myself it was Christmas.”

“Just then?”

“My fever, two months ago.”

My stomach clenches a little. “You did?”

Again, his smile is too lopsided to accept. He explains to me that although the house endeavour was fruitless in reenacting the Christmas atmosphere, the fever did quite well. The barriers that usually blocked his mind from such moods were temporarily dissolved.

“And you were so helpful with the decorations,” he adds, almost fondly. 

Just then, the waiter arrives with the drinks. Sherlock passes him a generous tip. 

I don’t say a word. He doesn’t seem to care. But my stomach is becoming pained with all the clenching. Why does his attachment to Christmas put me on edge? This degree is uncommon, sure, but everything is with him. Every time I touch on one of his interests, it deepens like the sea - why should this be any different? 

Why can’t I control my own emotions about this? It’s surely nothing, and yet my stomach feels like hell. 

Sherlock raises his cup to his lips. Then he pauses.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. Still trying to take care of him.

For a moment, he’s motionless.

“Smells like Christmas,” he mutters, almost quieter than I can hear. 

Then he puts his cup back in the saucer, and looks out to the street again. I watch his eyes. 

They don’t move anymore. Instead, they fix themselves on the puddled concrete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! comments very much appreciated :)


	7. He Wonders if John has Become Lost

**January, 2011**

Sherlock watches his life flash by as if he’s waiting for a train. He sits on the floor of the Tube, cross-legged, vulnerable, waiting.

Reds and blues and yellows blur by in time-lapse speed. All around him, life goes on at an accelerated rate. People walk by at dashing speed; the doors open and close fast enough to snap a person in half; the minute hand on the clocks behaves more like a second hand. The second hand is almost invisible: a blur. 

Sherlock raises his own hand, to catch his cheek. It’s wet. He sits there, facing the speeding trains, feeling their wind on his face. Drying his tears with a cold sting. 

Naturally, I’m at the other end of the platform. Too far from him. I can see his hand on his cheek; his slouched back. The curls at the nape of his neck. But while he sits in real time, and everyone else speeds around me, I’m frozen. I’m frozen and I can’t reach him. 

 

“A genuine question for you,” said Sherlock, suddenly. 

I nod, keeping my eyes on a spaghetti packet. It’s expensive, but it’ll have to do. 

“Why do shops sell Christmas stock in January?”

The spaghetti clatters in the basket. I can feel Sherlock following me as I leave the aisle. I need sauce. 

A light touch on my arm. I suppose he’s annoyed that I didn’t immediately answer his question. But honestly - surely such a _brilliant mind_ could deduce why. 

_Rude. Rude. Rude._ He’s just being him. I don’t have any right to the silent treatment. (And he was just nudging me down the right aisle, after all.)

It’s his voice in my head now. _Rude, rude!_

“Money,” I reply, trying to pass it off as if I was distracted rather than exasperated. He’d try to change himself if he knew I was exasperated by him. And that would be an unforgivable effect. 

 

Another train goes by. And another. And another.

Through the blur of colour and movement passing between us, I can see his shoulders tensing more and more. But I still can’t do anything about it. I’m helpless. 

My stomach clenches hard anyway.

There’s something about being unable to do anything, but having the simplest and most crucial of tasks open right in front of you, that sets my mind in circles that I can barely control. It scatters everything I think I know; disconnects them from each other. Without the connections, their evidence, they all just feel hypothetical. My hand starts to shake.

A train pulls in. Its soft groan is high-pitched with the increased speed. Everything is barely slow enough to see, and yet people embark and disembark with ease and safety. Sherlock’s still sitting there. My brain feels like a wet sponge, inflated the size of my skull. What is he waiting for?

_You. He’s waiting for you._

And there he will sit, waiting for any train, a hand on his cheek. Well, not any train. A train that he can catch with me. 

_How do you know that, though?_

I don’t, really. I can’t mentally connect why he would do that. I just know. 

But it’s scary to commit to a trust fall with your own mind. 

 

_Beep. Beep._

Sherlock’s hands are almost a blur as he passes the items through the self-checkout. I’ve seen too many blurs for one day. My stomach seems permanently clenched. I need to lie down. I’m sweating. Sherlock’s hand is on my shoulder. He’s stooping to my level, peering into my eyes. He’s saying something. Mouthing around a single word, over and over. I need to get home. I need to lie down. 

There’s the rustle of plastic bags grasped by a hand. The whoosh of automatic doors opening. Cold air hits my face. I can’t hear much. The soft murmur of voices. A dull ringing deep in my wet sponge brain. Those rotten leaves over there, brushing against the pavement. 

“Taxi!”

Suddenly, his voice is at ear-splitting volume right next to me. I jerk away from him.

“Calm it, will you?”

“Sorry, John.” 

I can hear again. Everything is at normal volume. Everything is at normal pace. 

“We can take the train, Sherlock. I’m alright.”

“No, John. Let’s take a cab. Get you home.”

He takes my elbow again. But I feel very here. My thoughts are in order; stomach unclenching, slowly.

In the end, _he_ reached _me_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! <3 p.s. i starve for validation and would literally die for a comment


	8. He's Thrown

**September, 2011**

Water on my neck. Steam rising to cover the tiles. I turn off the tap and step out of the shower. 

There are noises outside, the scrape of cardboard and some strange tinkling. My forehead furrows, trying to listen. When the crash comes, I’m halfway out the door in a second. Instinctually, I had rushed my dressing and was fairly decent. 

“What the _hell_ is going on?”

_Rude. Rude. Too angry, too early. Rude!_

He’d thrown it. Of course - why would he drop it? He has his back to me, facing the wall. But shards of glass lay on the carpet directly beneath the smiley face, and Sherlock’s back was stiffened.

The response that makes sense, medically, is to help him relax. Maybe touch his shoulders. But that’s out of the question, in terms of us. He definitely wouldn’t want me to. I’m certain of it. 

“Nothing’s going on.” 

And I respect his boundaries.

His voice is low and desolate.

I respect them. 

So I don’t touch him or anything. I just walk into the kitchen and start making tea for the both of us. 

“I hope you won’t leave it for Mrs Hudson to clean up,” I say in a flippant tone.

“No. No, I won’t.” 

“Good.” 

Surely, that’s enough. 

 

My watch reads 11:59pm. As soon as it ticks over, I reach across my pillow and switch off my light. 

Immediately, there’s an almighty crash from below. 

Out of my room in a second. I don’t remember how I reached the stairs, but next thing I know, I’m taking them two at a time. 

Whole body is rigid. Everything’s dark. If I trip… 

My feet hit the even floor. And Sherlock’s there, with his back to me. His huge coat and curly hair are silhouettes that I’ve landed inches from. 

All the suspense leaves my body in a whoosh of air. My heaving breaths are the only sound. I’m suddenly thrown by how rubbery and trembly my body feels.

 

“Are you alright?”

I jump a little. He’s barely an arm’s length from me, but he hasn’t reacted at all. As still as a statue. Strange to hear him speak.

And in such a deep and lost tone. Even after four hours, when the bauble split open like a flower in a time lapse. 

“Am _I_ alright?” Now I’m the element in this baffling scene that’s lost. 

“Who else is here?”

“Well, _you,_ for starters. I rushed down to check on you! I thought you’d _fallen_ or something!” 

It’s so dark and cold down here. Mrs Hudson’s door is still closed. Irrelevantly, I wonder whether she can get warm enough in this downstairs chill. I push that from my mind. 

It’s hard to connect my thoughts well when I’m so close to him - and not stepping away, apparently. I hadn’t thought of it. My brain feels like mush again. 

_Turn around. Turn around so I can see your face._

But why should he turn around? I’m not moving. Why aren’t I moving?

Maybe he needs the closeness. I can’t touch him, but maybe closeness would help. Why don’t I know? I’m a doctor. 

“Ah, yes…” he says, ever so softly. I can barely hear him. 

Then, even softer: “Fallen.”

 

For a time, he’s silent. As if he’s thinking about what just passed between us. The wind outside is muffled against the heavy front door; we only hear whispers when there should be shrieks. 

It’s still so, so cold. Every hair on my body is standing. I’m shaking. 

He’s motionless.

Finally, I step away from him. To the right. My toe nudges something hard and sharp. 

_Hm._ I can’t stop my eyes from being pulled, slowly and irresistibly, to the floor. 

It’s covered in shards. Smashed, shimmering baubles. Tangled fairy lights, their bulbs blown against the hard floor. Shredded tinsel. 

Sherlock’s still motionless. His shoulders are rigid and hunched in his coat. 

He already knows what I’m just starting to observe. 

They couldn’t have been destroyed in such a way if they had just fallen. 

“Fallen…” he whispers. As if trying to assuage my fears. Perhaps he is; he’s gentle like that.

No, Sherlock. I know they didn’t fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! comments really appreciated <3


	9. He Wants the Room to be Bright

**Christmas Eve, 2010**

Waves crash against the gritty shore, pulling in blustery clouds across the sky. Seagulls scream and wheel. The wind is almost too cold and sharp to stand.

But I’m far above it all. The cliff-face is sharp enough to see directly below, so far below. The figure at its foot is a black speck.

I can’t see who it is. Not from this distance; this angle. My stomach is clenching, so hard. My hands clutch it. 

“Sherlock!” I scream. I’m leaning over the edge.

This is dangerous. My feeble brain trying to protect me. I don’t care. 

“ _Sherlock!”_ I shriek. It could be him. There’s a chance. 

I have to get to him. My stomach is clenching so tightly. _So_ tightly. As if I’m pinned under the elephant in the room. I’m screaming, trying to catch his attention, trying to get some of the pressure out of my system, but the wind snatches my voice away. Someone standing a metre from me would think I’m screaming silently.

 

But the waves crash and tumble, and I hear their thunder. I feel their vibrations. The stormy sky is calmer and less grey than the sea. 

A pebble skids out from beneath my shoes. Then a larger rock. It tumbles down the cliff-face, smashing into pieces on a ridge halfway down. 

The figure doesn’t move. 

Terrified, I haul myself back from the edge. What if a larger rock loosens and falls? He couldn't hear it coming.

As I rush back, one foot catches the other. Stomach plummets. Trip backwards through the wind and air with a shout I can’t even hear. 

The long grass catches and cushions me. Just as fast, I’m sitting, my elbows on my knees, head in hands. Tears are filling my palms already. I can’t reach him. I can’t. 

Why do I even have to reach him? 

 

“John.” 

Why do I have to reach him?

I drag my eyes open. The first thing I feel is my body, stretched out as tight and rigid as a violin’s string. Sunlight is pouring through the window, blinding me. 

“John. You alright?”

“Yeah,” I slur, automatically. My mouth feels like it’s been packed with cotton. I can barely speak. 

Shielding a hand over my eyes, I stop squinting and see Sherlock fully in the doorway. He’s holding a tray. My bedroom is awash with golden sunshine. It hits his curls and gives them a mellow glow. It’s rather nice.

“I’ve brought you breakfast.” 

I can’t really process that one. It’s too early. 

He steps over to my bed, puts the tray on my knees, and steps back swiftly. Space. Room. His understanding of my boundaries. But I don’t mind. I can’t tell him that, though. It’s sort of beyond our etiquette - of things we can talk about. So I guess this level of care about personal space will stay. 

I smile at him. He gives a small, lopsided smile back. Then he sits at the edge of my bed, and I start eating Mrs Hudson’s eggs (I doubt they’re Sherlock’s making), and we talk about the day. 

 

He’s excited. I can tell. I can see it from the frantic waving of his hands as he speaks, the light in his eyes, the way he musses his hair subconsciously as he’s driving towards a specific point. At one point, he becomes lost in thought, tapping one finger against his lip with his eyes glazed over, so I cut up my bacon and wait for him to come back. 

I can tell because he brought me breakfast. Probably opened my curtains and readied my room while I slept before _officially_ entering. And sat on my bed and spoke with me. Even offered to make me tea to help the toast down. He’s always kind, but his guard has completely slipped down, and so much of his gentleness is shining through. 

I’m smiling so much, and slowly but surely, so is he. 

“You were dreaming,” he says finally, as I scrape my plate clean. He’s looking down at his hands, now folded in his lap. His shoulders are slouched. 

I don’t want him to lose his sudden vibrancy. I give him another smile as he peeks at my expression. He tentatively returns it.

“I was opening your curtains. You know, for your room to be bright for Christmas Eve."

He pauses. His cheeks redden like roses.

"You were moaning my name.”

“Probably,” I say, offhandedly. I'm wondering what to wear for our big day, and I'm a bit distracted.

But I shake myself internally and focus. He looks ashamed, for some reason. I don’t want him to be.

I put my hand on the cover of my bed, as far as I can comfortably reach. He looks at it for a moment, then puts his hand on the blanket as well. 

There are several inches between them, and it’s enough for our boundaries. 

Slowly, unsurely, he allows a small smile.

It's brighter than the sunshine flooding the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! <3


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